Harsh Reality
by Dante de Troy
Summary: The adventures of an individual who dares to bring heroism back to the real world. Rated R for language and violence
1. Hard Nights

THE FIRST  
  
By Joshua Epstein  
  
(LEGAL STUFF: Evan Martin is my creation, and I own him. As this is a world that I am creating based on our own, certain real people may end up appearing, but this story is, in now way, meant as libel or slander to them, they are only there when and if the story requires them to be.)  
  
CHAPTER 1: Hard Nights  
  
Evan leaned against the wall of the 12th street subway station. It had been a long afternoon, and he had been standing there for hours, idly sipping at his latest cup of coffee. The cold of winter hadn't fully burned off from the city yet, and he bit back a shiver, despite his black pea coat and stocking cap. It had definitely been a very long day.  
  
Down the platform a ways, Evan finally spotted what he had been waiting for. A young man in a dark green coat and black ball cap was waiting near the newsstand, looking back and forth, obviously trying to find someone. Evan stuck a piece of gum in his mouth to dampen the coffee taste and walked toward the man.  
  
"What's up, man?" Evan asked casually, rubbing his hands together for warmth.  
  
"Not much. You?"  
  
"Same old. What you got for me?" Evan leaned in a little closer for this last, keeping his voice a little lower.  
  
The young man shrugged. "Dunno, bro. What you got for me?"  
  
"You don't want me flashin' a wad here, do you?"  
  
"Naw, man. Just gimme a number."  
  
"Seven hundred."  
  
"Not bad. I got maybe two, two and a half I can let you have."  
  
"Sounds good. Got it on you?"  
  
"Yeah, man. You?"  
  
"Yep. Hold on, let me dig it out." Evan dug into his back pocket, or so it seemed to the dealer. He pulled the Berretta nine-millimeter from the holster underneath his jacket, then dug his wallet out, flashing the silver shield inside.  
  
"NYPD, pal, you're done for today."  
  
The kid laughed a bit. "Dude, put that shit away before someone sees. You get fucked up around here, pretending to be a cop."  
  
Evan didn't move, but kept the gun leveled on the youth.  
  
"Man, you just gotta take it easy…" The kid's hand shot up and hit the gun to the side, and it went off as Evan squeezed the trigger. The kid hit him square in the stomach and took off running down the platform. Screams were coming from all over the crowd, and people were running from the area, having heard the gunshot.  
  
"Everybody down! NYPD! Get out of the way!!!" Evan had pulled himself to his feet and was sprinting after the kid. The sound of shoes on concrete echoed as they ran to more deserted parts of the track. Evan was rounding a corner when a foot shot out and tripped him, sending him sprawling. The youth sprang from the shadows and kicked him hard in the ribs. Evan grunted with the impact and rolled over, clasping a hand to his side.  
  
"Damned pig…" The youth was out of breath, but had the energy to deliver another vicious kick to the curled up policeman. "Had to come and fuck up my spot…" Another kick. "Now I'm gonna fuck you up!" He swung is foot for another kick, but Evan's hand shot out and grabbed the leg, then he lurched up, his elbow colliding with the side of the kid's knee. The crack of bone and cartilege echoed in the empty tunnel. The youth screamed as he went down to his other knee and tried to pull a gun from inside his jacket. Evan kicked hard at the kid's hand, sending the weapon flying. On his feet now, he delivered a hard right cross, laying the young dealer out cold.  
  
"You have the right to remain silent."  
  
He walked to the other side of the tunnel and retrieved his gun from where it had fallen when he fell. He tucked it into the holster on his belt and opened his jacket, running a hand along the thick Kevlar vest that was under his shirt.  
  
"Thank god for thinking ahead." He looked at the unconscious criminal on the ground. "And now I have to drag your sorry ass all the way back… god damn…" 


	2. Pointless Nights

THE FIRST  
  
By Joshua Epstein  
  
(LEGAL STUFF: Evan Martin is my creation, and I own him. As this is a world that I am creating based on our own, certain real people may end up appearing, but this story is, in now way, meant as libel or slander to them, they are only there when and if the story requires them to be. The 19th precinct really does exist in upper Manhattan, but no offense is meant by any part of the description of it in this piece. I have nothing but respect for the men and women of the NYPD. This story is meant to take place in a somewhat less fortunate near future.)  
  
CHAPTER 2: Pointless Night  
  
Like many other plainclothes officers, the car that Evan drove was in none-too-good of shape. It was a '96 Buick that had seen the business end of more than a few baseball bats, more than a few times, the odd scrape from traffic, and quite a number of dents in the hood from brawls outside bars that Evan had been staking out. He tossed the young dealer, a kid named Benny Harmond, into the back seat and cuffed his hands to the steel ring the floorboard. The kid was at least twenty minutes from waking up, and definitely wouldn't be trying much with his leg still skewed at the wrong ninety-degree angle, but it was always a good idea to play it safe.  
  
Even at three in the morning, (it had taken him quite a while to drag Benny down the tunnel) the traffic was pretty bad, probably littered with late-night club-goers and high-priced hookers headed home from their escapades. Evan expertly maneuvered his car through the crannies of the flow with the half-minded ease only a native New Yorker could achieve. His mind barely even touched on the traffic around him as he finally slid out of the flow and parked his car just outside the stationhouse's rear entrance. A pair of department EMTs were waiting for him. One in particular, Tom Fuseli, gave him a dark look. Fuseli was a well-built man in his late twenties, his coloring betraying his Italian lineage. Ignoring the look, Evan brushed past him and trudged into the stationhouse. The almost-elegant colonial façade of the 19th Precinct was only that; a façade. Inside, the seediness that had overtaken most of the north Manhattan in the last ten years was more than evident. The floor, during the day kept clean and buffed, was streaked with quite a few different colors, from the black of dragged boots to telltale dark red. The desk Sergeant didn't even look up as Evan walked by, only muttered under his breath that the Captain wanted to see him.  
  
The door to Captain Peter Anderson's office was hanging slightly open when Evan approached. From inside, he could hear the scratching of pen on paper. In recent years, the 19th hadn't had the budget to purchase many new computers, and those that they did have were earmarked for more critical uses than a squad captain filling out his reports. Evan tapped lightly on the doorframe.  
  
"Who is it?"  
  
"Martin. You wanted to see me, Captain?"  
  
"Get in here and shut the door."  
  
Evan slid through the door, closing it behind him, and dropped down into the chair in front of the Captain's desk. Anderson hadn't yet looked up from his paperwork. He scratched out a few more lines, then dropped the pencil and removed the wire-frame glasses that adorned his tightly-lined face.  
  
"Busy night, Evan?"  
  
Not any busier than usual, captain. I brought in a dealer, that's about it."  
  
"Yes. The dealer." Anderson flipped open a file-folder on his desk. "Harmond, Benjamin T. Convicted in '99 on two counts of possession with intent to sell, released after six months on good behavior. Convicted again in '00 on one count of possession with intent and one count of resisting arrest. Released eighteen months ago. Quiet for a while, now you drag him in here with a brick of cheap Mexican shit in his backpack and a shattered knee."  
  
"I was wired sir, I got everything he said. The DA's office can lock this punk up for good without even having their morning cup of coffee. Third strike, he's done."  
  
Anderson closed the file and rubbed his forehead.  
  
"It was a good catch, Evan. But that's not what I called you in for." He pulled another file from his desk drawer and flipped it open. "Martin, Evan J. Signed on in '91. Made detective in '96. You were assigned here in '98 after your Captain at the 101st decided that maybe a visit uptown would "improve your mood"." The irony behind Anderson's statement was not lost on Evan, nor was the bitterness in his voice. In '98, the 19th had been home to some of New York's finest, both police officers and civilians. It had been somewhere that people wanted to visit. Now it had started to go the way of the rest of the city. The sudden rise in city morale that had came in the first years of the millennium had given way to the creeping decay that was eroding away the progress that had been made in the waning days of the '90s. Anderson continued. "In '99 you were put on leave by IA pending investigation of excessive force charges. The charges were later dismissed. You've been put on leave three times since, for the same reason." He closed the file. "Now this. Evan…"  
  
Martin put a hand up. "I know what you're gonna say, Captain." He leaned forward in his chair. "Look, I know that I may have taken this kid down hard, but it was me or him. You've gotta believe that."  
  
"Evan… once is doing what you have to do. Twice is grounds for concern. Three times and they start wondering if something is really going on with you. But this… the kid may never walk straight again. The doc says that you shattered his entire knee. If he doesn't heal on his own, the kid is going to need massive reconstructive surgery before that knee will work at all, let alone right."  
  
"This 'kid' is a fucking drug dealer, Captain!"  
  
Anderson's eyes flared. "Watch your tongue with me, Martin. Now look. This kid is pressing excessive force charges against you. You have two choices. You can fight it or you can just let the department put you on leave for a while." Anderson sighed and seemed to wilt slightly in his chair. "I'm going to level with you, Evan. You're going to lose. It may have been self-defense, but your record is going to stand against you."  
  
"This is bullshit, Cap, and you know it."  
  
Anderson's eyes were sad when he looked at Evan. "There's nothing I can do. I have to ask you for your badge and gun."  
  
"You don't have to ask." Evan shoved the chair back roughly, whipped the gun out of its holster, clicked the clip release, which sent the clip clattering to the desk with a thud, scattering rounds on the floor. He slammed the gun down with a crack, then reached into his pocket, pulled his badge out, and tossed it into Anderson's face. "Take it. I hope you can sleep at night. You just ditched a good cop." Evan whirled and stormed out the door, pushing it open without turning the knob, which pulled a chunk of wood along with it as it opened. It slammed shut behind him, and Anderson heard the almost animal howl from the squad room and looked down at the badge and gun. It wasn't his fault… the department couldn't afford another lawsuit… but dammit, it just wasn't right…  
  
"Take care of yourself, kid." He murmured to no one. 


	3. Rage

THE FIRST  
  
By Joshua Epstein  
  
(LEGAL STUFF: Evan Martin is my creation, and I own him. As this is a world that I am creating based on our own, certain real people may end up appearing, but this story is, in now way, meant as libel or slander to them, they are only there when and if the story requires them to be.)  
  
CHAPTER 3: Rage  
  
The door slammed hard behind Evan as he stormed out of Captain Anderson's office. He passed his desk on the way out, and hit the steel casing behind the rear door of the stationhouse with a clenched fist, letting a cry of pure rage rip loose from somewhere deep inside him. A number of concerned officers tried to stop him and calm him down, but he pushed past them like they weren't even there. All the pent up anger that had been welling up inside him for months, even years, was finally loosing itself, and it was a terrible sight to behold. He tore free of the few pairs of hands that tried to hold him and climbed into his car and sped away, tires screeching, leaving a trail of dark rubber on the ground, like an impermanent testament to their owner's anger.  
  
On the FDR, the rage simply grew. Every car that was in his way became a bitter enemy, every small slowdown a part of a massive conspiracy. Evan could feel his heart hammering away in his chest as his foot slammed down on the pedal, sending the Buick recklessly careening down the slick surface of the freeway. He was so consumed in his anger for everything around him that he didn't feel the tears streaming down his face.  
  
The Buick raced down the freeway, gaining speed, and Evan could almost feel the tires beginning to slip on the slick surface. Before he knew it, the car began to rotate, hydroplaning. The front end slapped hard into the concrete center divider. There was a loud crashing sound and the car flipped side over side, rolling down the highway until it slid to a halt among the cars that it had collided with. Slowly, onlookers began to gather. The car was totaled, part strewn all over the highway. One man stopped his car and climbed out.  
  
"Everybody back!" He flashed a badge and moved toward the wreck. He'd already called it in on his radio. He had been headed home when he saw the maniac screaming down the highway. Something on the remains of the front dashboard caught his eye. It was the base mount of a siren-light. "Oh shit… it's a cop." He knelt down by the driver-side door and peered in. From within, he heard a faint moan. "God, this guy's still kickin! Somebody help me pry this door open!"  
  
***********  
  
COUNTY GENERAL: 4:15 AM  
  
"How's he look, Doc?" Anderson asked, his arms held stiffly across his chest. Through the window he could see the battered form of Evan Martin, respirator over his face and an i.v. pumping through him.  
  
"It'll be tomorrow morning before we know for certain. He suffered severe trauma to the cranium, cracked several ribs, and broke his left arm. A clean break, so it should heal within six to eight weeks. It's the cranial injury that has me concerned."  
  
"Tell me plain, doc. Is he gonna wake up?"  
  
"We really don't know, Captain."  
  
"If he hasn't woken up by nightfall, then we'll have to contact his next of kin to determine whether or not to continue with extraordinary measures."  
  
The doctor walked away and Anderson was left looking at the unconscious form of Evan Martin. He had known that Martin would snap, he knew it! And yet he had gone through with it anyway. He played the good company man, doing things the company way. And this was where it was led. A good cop… a good man lay dying on a hospital bed because Anderson had let done what he was told. He clenched his fist and bit back the tears that were welling up in his eyes.  
  
"I'm sorry Evan." 


	4. Injustice

THE FIRST  
  
By Joshua Epstein  
  
(LEGAL STUFF: Evan Martin is my creation, and I own him. As this is a world that I am creating based on our own, certain real people may end up appearing, but this story is, in now way, meant as libel or slander to them, they are only there when and if the story requires them to be.)  
  
CHAPTER 4: Injustice  
  
Why? The question ran through Peter Anderson's mind over and over. Why did this happen to Martin? Why did I take away his badge, the one thing in his life that gave it meaning? WHY?  
  
Anderson walked the echoing halls of County General, passing by white-coated doctors and blue-scrubbed nurses as if they were nothing but ghosts. They never gave him a second look, a weary man in a grimy brown trenchcoat and stained tie. He walked out into the rain and slowly made his way down the street. He looked around him as he went. The city was rotting around him while he watched. Everywhere he looked, graffiti stained the walls, masonry lay cracked and unrepaired, and broken windows let the rain in. He remembered when he'd been younger, things had been looking up. Broadway was clean and good women could walk in Times Square. It hadn't taken long. When the recession had hit a few years back, the hookers had moved back onto Broadway and the gangs ran the Square. Cops watched their backs with every step, and normal people didn't go out at night. It was as if the city was sinking into another time altogether. It was a city without hope.  
  
He was unlocking his car when he heard the telltale click of a revolver being cocked.   
  
"Wallet and keys, now, buddy."  
  
"You're making a mistake pal."  
  
"Lecture me later, bub, gimme the goods now."  
  
"All right." Anderson reached around behind him and, with a fluid motion whipped the Glock from its belt holster with one hand, palmed the thug's gun with the other, and the positions were reversed. "You want the goods, pal? Here's the fucking goods!" He tore the gun from the thug's hand and hit him in the face with it. The pug-faced crook went down in a heap. Anderson pulled a pair of cuffs from his belt and fastened them to the would-be-thief's wrists. He tossed the thug against the wall, pulled his phone from his pocket and dialed the station.  
  
"This is Anderson. Send a squadcar down to County General. I've got a guy down here for you. Thought he could get the goods from me."  
  
Several minutes later, a couple of uniformed cops took the thug off Anderson's hands and drove off. He slumped in the driver's seat of the car. Outside a hospital. Maybe Martin had his reasons for being the way he was. Maybe his way of working just wasn't good enough in this meaner New York. Maybe.  
  
"But I hope I'm wrong." 


End file.
